“How else would we pay? With gold? Don’t worry—Signor Favaro will be fair with you. He’d better, or I’ll have something to say about it. Here’s my list.”

Nina hadn’t yet gone to the store; that task usually fell to Rosa or Aldo, who tended to be late returning because he liked to stop at the osteria for a glass of wine with his friends. Only on Sundays did Nina ever leave the farm, and that was only for Mass.

The day was gray and cool, but the girls skipped along as if the weather was perfectly fine, and in a matter of minutes they were crossing the piazza. Compared to a Sunday morning, it was almost deserted, with only a handful of people coming in and out of the shops, and the osteria still shuttered.

Nina and the girls had just passed the fountain at the piazza’s center when a car drove past them, circled the square, and parked in front of the carabinieri station. It was big and dark, as sleek and predatory as a panther, and the sense of unease it awoke in her was only bolstered by the black pennant of the SS that was affixed to its fender.

“That’s a German car,” Agnese said fearfully. “Why do you think they’ve come here?”

It was the first automobile Nina had seen in weeks, apart from the occasional delivery lorry trundling past the farm. And she couldn’t think of a single good reason for a Nazi officer to be paying a visit to Mezzo Ciel.

“I expect they’re lost,” she fibbed, not wishing for the girls to worry. “That’s probably why they’ve stopped. To ask for directions.”

Agnese was unconvinced. “But Papà always says Officer Dagosta can’t even figure out how to find his own nose, so how—”

“Hush!” Nina insisted. “You know better than to talk like that in public. Besides, we need to hurry. We don’t want Rosa to be cross with us for taking too long.”

The sign for Fratelli Favaro was inconspicuous, a small painted plaque above the door, but the shop itself was impossible to miss, its exterior flanked by garlands of baskets on ropes, sheaves of brooms and mops, and neat towers of stoneware crocks. Inside, the shop’s walls were tiled with shelves that rose to the ceiling, each packed tight with wares for sale. Food and grocery goods were at the front on the left, where a white-aproned Signor Favaro stood behind a shining walnut counter, while household items and hardware were to the right, and fabric and ready-made garments were at the very back. That was Signora Favaro’s domain, and if there was a second Favaro brother, as promised by the sign, he was absent.

The shopkeeper offered a broad smile as they entered. “Good morning, Signora Gerardi. My felicitations on your recent marriage. How may I serve you this morning?”